


You Can't Disown What's Yours

by paradox_n_bedrock



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Church of Lilith, Drama, F/F, Kinda, Mystery, Pre-Canon Divergence, and they were quarantinemates, and things went off the rails anyway, in which Mary Wardwell never returned to Greendale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23905381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradox_n_bedrock/pseuds/paradox_n_bedrock
Summary: Zelda Spellman, High Priestess of the Church of Night, visits her long-distance paramour Mambo Marie LaFleur in New Orleans. NYC schoolteacher Mary Wardwell spends her summer vacations looking for answers to a four-year-old lapse in her memory. And Lilith, Mother of Demons, secret Queen of Hell, tracks a particularly elusive soul. But something more is at play, something pushing them together, and no one is prepared for the answers that will come to light.
Relationships: Marie LaFleur (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina)/Zelda Spellman, Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith & Original Mary Wardwell, Zelda Spellman & Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Comments: 17
Kudos: 27
Collections: And They Were Quarantinemates





	You Can't Disown What's Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I wrote most of this in a frenzy over the last few days for the April "And They Were Quarantinemates" Challenge. I hope the concept is intriguing. Please share your thoughts, if you're interested in more.

Zelda clipped down the street, holding her sun umbrella up carefully to shield her fair skin. The sun exposure didn’t agree with her any more than the impossibly thick, humid heat that permeated the populated street, causing her hair to frizz and sweat to bead and roll down her back. There were a number of charms she could cast to mitigate her discomfort, but she was always cautious when she visited New Orleans. Witches and mortals alike flocked to the city as much in search of magic as of a good time, but her reason for visiting was more personal, and that led her to act with decidedly more care than she did at home in Greendale. A misstep here could easily draw the wrong sort of attention to her lover’s doorstep. 

She hadn’t ever thought she’d be making regular treks to somewhere in the States farther south than the Bible Belt. Not that one could necessarily call it regular when this was merely her second trip, but she was already, in a hushed, hopeful corner of her mind, thinking about _next time._ The city should have been off-putting, too loud and brash, she should have downright hated it, particularly the habits of locals -- mortals and witches and rootworkers alike -- bold enough to accost any stranger. Instead, she found herself unexpectedly charmed by the music in the streets and the buzz of spellwork practiced near openly. It reminded her of freer times, when she traveled the world and was beholden to no one, and that feeling swelled inside her, strange and buoyant. 

The city was not all joy, of course, it was marked by struggle, was perpetually in the midst of it to some degree, and even in the affluent and tourist-laden French Quarter, the effects of poverty and homelessness crept visibly around the edges. Though in some way it was more apparent just a mile northwest in Tremé, the neighborhood where Marie’s shop and the apartment above it were located.

The shop was where Zelda was headed, after a stop for beignets and chicory coffee. Marie would understand the delay, and their meeting would be that much sweeter with a café au lait in hand.

As she rounded the corner, she was bumped into with not inconsiderable force, almost losing grip of her umbrella. She opened her mouth to tell the person to mind themselves in the most scathing tone she could muster, but apologies were already spilling from the woman like the belongings from her arms. A notebook, a brightly colored tourist brochure, a map of the city falling to her very sensible flats. Zelda stepped back abruptly as the woman crouched to recover them.

“I- I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking-” She was rather mousy, Zelda thought, with her dark hair pulled back off her neck in a haphazard bun and her modest short-sleeved sundress. Undoubtedly mortal.

“Clearly,” she snapped, peering over the edge of her sunglasses, and the woman went silent, blushing red as she stood. She swayed on her feet and Zelda shot a hand out, steadying her by the elbow. “For Satan's sake," she muttered. "Do _not_ faint on me. I won’t catch you.”

“I’m fine,” she said softly and Zelda didn’t believe her a whit, as she swayed again from the jostling of a passerby. She sighed deeply and steered her to lean against a wall in the shade of a nearby shop. 

She debated the merits of stepping away to purchase a bottle of water, or conjuring one, and decided both options were a step too far. Besides, she had all the indications of a tourist, perhaps- “Do you have water on you?” Zelda asked, closing her umbrella and snatching the oversized tote bag from the brunette’s shoulder. She started to dig through it: a wallet, sunscreen, a book on Vodou, a map of the notable cemeteries, another book on... astral and psychic damage, of all things. She even recognized the author. And there was a small bottle of water.

Looking at the woman with new eyes, she found her staring back with a keen but not suspicious sky blue gaze, and Zelda was forced to amend her opinion to “naturally striking and, perhaps, uncommonly well-informed.” She was thankful she hadn’t relied on a bit of magical sleight of hand to produce the beverage.

“Drink this,” she said, handing over the bottle and shoving the notebook and papers haphazardly into the bag.

“I’m fine! I really am, I just had a- a moment.” She unscrewed the cap and took a sip. “Thank you, for your help,” she added, still impossibly soft-spoken.

“Then you’re fine for me to leave you be and get on with my day?” 

“Yes, of course,” she replied, but didn’t take her bag back. A second shy of Zelda letting the whole thing fall to the ground, she continued, “There is one more thing. I’m trying to find a specific shop if you happen to know where it is…” She rattled off the name of a surprisingly familiar store, one she’d passed several times with Marie last time she was in town. It was just off Bourbon Street but wasn’t among the most kitschy of the tourist traps. Marie spoke fondly of the houngan that ran it. 

Zelda pulled out the map and a pen, silently marking the location. She deliberated for a moment but handed it back without marking down Marie’s location as well. It was tempting to court business on her behalf, but there was no need to go asking after trouble, and this meek mortal screamed trouble like a banshee’s wail.

“Oh! Thank you, again. I’m Mary Wardwell, by the way.” Finally, she heaved her bag back on her shoulder and then thrust out her hand for Zelda to shake. 

Zelda acted as though she didn’t see it, already turning away. Reopening her umbrella, she spoke over her shoulder. “Have a good day, Ms. Wardwell. I do hope you find what you’re looking for.”

* * *

Mary finished her water, cooling off to the best of her ability and trying not to sink into humiliation at what had just happened. What a strange woman, she thought. Mary wondered if she could be from here. She had helped Mary, when back in New York most people would brush by, unconcerned by her distress and fumbled belongings, but had been awfully harsh about it. It seemed out of character for this warm and welcoming place. Maybe she was a somewhat recent transplant, not entirely acclimated to the mores of her new home. 

She peered down at her map. Mary could have found the shop, she had the address from the man, Houngan Samuel Martine, that she had spoken to on the phone. She didn’t really know why she’d bothered the woman further by asking, other than being a little stunned by the manhandling. Maybe just for something to say, beyond confused stammering.

This did make her life a little easier, she supposed, starting on the most direct route to her destination. She no longer got her hopes up about this being the trip that solved her problems, that gave her answers to her nightmares and headaches and the low-grade dread that ate at her nerves sometimes, for seemingly no reason. It was too tiring, to live in a constant state of disappointment when a lead failed to pan out. To think that this man could restore the months of memories she was missing, or even just tell her _why_ , when the doctors couldn’t, nor the psychologists, hypnotists, psychics, monks, priests, or ministers. Nor the self-proclaimed witches. She shivered, despite the heat. 

She’d been enamored with the possibility of magic once, as a young girl in Greendale, living near a wood that seemed to teem with it and a town full of history surrounding it. Then, she’d moved away for school, and she’d fallen in love, not with a person, but with a city where the magic was in humanity’s ability to build community among millions.

It was overwhelming sometimes, still, after thirty years, but she loved her little Brooklyn apartment with her balcony full of plants, and she loved her students, needy and loud as they could be. And she had friends who supported her, though they thought her mad.

The supernatural had seemed a distant concept, a childish wish revived only by the occasional odd experience, until she had found herself at her favorite coffee shop one day, no memory of how she got there, utterly starving. She’d gone home to discover three months had passed outside of her recollection and a battery of superstitious items littering the space. That night had begun four years of questioning her sanity as well as her world view. 

Mary stopped, almost plowing into someone else as she turned around, realizing she had passed the very shop she was trying to find. She took in the ornate storefront, with its neon sign and the pictures of saints plastering the window, before approaching, and pushed the door open hesitantly. She was shaking, she was always shaking. She prepared to the best of her ability, she’d done the research and watched documentaries and talked to no end to the woman back in Brooklyn who’d started her on this particular path. She tried to be as educated as possible on each avenue she pursued, but if it was truly something _unexplainable_ that had happened to her, she was vulnerable every time she put herself in a situation such as this.

The bell over the door made her jump and her eyes watered from the smoky scent rushing to her face as she entered the tiny shop. There were a few people milling about, browsing the talismans on display. She lingered awkwardly by the counter, waiting until a man approached. “Welcome! Can I help you find anything? A gris-gris bag for protection, perhaps?” 

“Yes, I have an, um, appointment...”

“Ah, Mary?” His customer service smile melted away into something more sober. “Call me Samuel. You’re a little early, but have a look around, I’ll be with you in a minute.” He turned away, speaking to a short man reorganizing a shelf and then ducked into the backroom.

She wandered to the dolls that were on display, examining them curiously. They were so different than the ones she had tucked away at home. 

When Samuel came to get her, she had made her way to the small section of books and was buried in a photography book documenting rituals of various African diasporic religions. “Come on, I’m ready,” he said, waving her back. She slid the book back onto its shelf with a lingering touch to its spine and followed him through the curtain.

The other room seemed to double as a stockroom and a workspace. There was a round table with two chairs tucked to the side. Samuel pulled out one chair for her and then sat at the far side. He regarded her seriously, “You’ve told me how you’ve been afflicted with nightmares and lost time. Is there anything you want to add that we didn’t talk about over the phone?”

Mary shook her head, setting her hands on the orange tablecloth, rubbing the rough texture with her thumb. But then she nodded and began to haltingly recount her tale, with more focus on the cloying uncertainty and the fear and sorrow that seized her without explanation, rather than merely the fact of her missing memories.

Samuel listened attentively, without question or interruption, until she had finished. Concern crinkled the brown skin around his eyes. “We’re going to start with a reading, to determine what it is that’s causing your suffering.”

He picked up a deck of cards, not tarot, but simple playing cards, and began chanting as he shuffled.

It was Creole, Mary thought, trying to pick out any words she could recognize, trying to breathe and focus on the sound to stay calm. If he could figure out what exactly was wrong with her, then maybe he could do something to help her. It was far too early to be this anxious.

Twenty minutes later, Mary was near tears, as another person explained to her that, yes, something was wrong, but no, they couldn’t help her.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said empathetically, but firmly. “I can tell your spirit is off, damaged. But there’s nothing I can do. I can’t heal you from this. I would be wasting your time and money to try. I can’t even tell what’s causing it.” He looked searchingly into her eyes. “It does seem the Ghede walk closely with you. Do you have much experience with death?”

She blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears at bay. “My parents died when I was in college. And then- maybe- I still don't know...” Her voice came out too high, too jumbled, and she didn't know how to go on.

“There is someone else I want you to see, while you’re here. Mambo Marie LaFleur. If anyone can help you, it’s her.”

Mary had heard that before, but she smiled as politely as she could, accepted the information Samuel wrote down for her and paid him for his work. On her way out the door, she thought to herself, _no expectations, Mary, you’re so good about that until the moment comes,_ not feeling his considering gaze on her back.

* * *

Zelda let herself into the shop, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. She could hear Marie in the backroom finishing up with a client, so she stepped around the counter, leaning against it while she waited. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the scent of incense and wax and _Marie_ , letting it drown out the lingering sourness of the city. She sipped her coffee and felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. Moreso when she heard Marie’s lyrical voice leading the person out and wishing them well. 

“Your bag arrived this morning," she called to Zelda, coming back in. "Ah, behind the counter? _Très audacieuse_.” 

She smiled, trying not to let it edge too widely, taking in the well-missed sight before her. Marie was draped in a casual red dress that set off the warmth of her dark skin and a vibrant blue headwrap, and Zelda wondered if she’d been working specifically with Petro _lwa_ that day, to dress to their color palate so tightly. She set her coffee down carefully out of reach on a shelf. “Am I not supposed to be back here? Whatever shall you do about it?” she drawled.

Within seconds, Marie was in front of her, boosting her up on the counter with only the slightest bit of help, grinning with abandon. “First offense? You owe me a kiss, _ma chérie_.”

“I can do better than _a_ kiss,” she husked, separating her legs for Marie to step between them, her white linen dress allowing the freedom. “You’ll have to tell me about repeat offenses later.” 

She pulled Marie in, kissing her eagerly until she had to break away because they were both smiling. She tried again and again until their smiles faded and Marie’s hand buried in her hair.

She was dragging her lips along Marie’s strong jawline when they missed the sound of the bell signaling someone entering the store, but they did hear the shocked gasp shortly afterward. Zelda pulled away, trying not to laugh at the smudge of her makeup over Marie’s embarrassed face. She wiped at it with her thumb and then swiped at the surely smeared line of her own lips. Sliding off the counter gracefully, she turned to face their interruption.

Who was none other than mousy Mary Wardwell. _Of course._

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, turning to face the wall. She was even redder than she had been earlier. 

“Are you ever not?” sniped Zelda.

“Zelda!” Marie scolded.

“We met but two hours ago. She was looking for Houngan Samuel.” Marie maintained her glare, only softening when she spoke to Mary.

“What a coincidence of fate, eh? He sent you?”

“Yes? Yes, he did. He did a reading for me and said you might h- have more luck with my problem. If you’re Mambo Marie, that is?” she stuttered out, still not looking at them.

“His confidence is touching. Of course, I will see what I can do for you. Zelda, could you get her settled while I ring Samuel? Make some tea, _s’il te plait_?” she asked, her tone telling Zelda it would be best to smooth over her rudeness to a potential customer.

Zelda bristled, but conceded with a dramatic sigh, knowing Marie wouldn’t turn anyone away without hearing their story, and took Mary to get comfortable in the other side of the sizable shop.

* * *

Lilith slinked into the shadows of a narrow alley for a much needed moment of peace. Collecting souls continued to be one of her most loathed duties, and as a result, she was _extremely_ discerning about making additional deals. Though not one among Hell’s remaining nobility could say she neglected those already in place. She was, after all, trekking around a crowded, stinking city, full of people a little too fascinated with the supernatural, in search of a single unfortunate soul.

The man in question, one Felix K. Pendle, was a leftover from Lucifer’s reign, on a seven-year contract that was now up. His file was a bit sparse on the details, but that was hardly a surprise given the constant disaster that had been the Dark Lord’s approach to paperwork. She hadn’t even been able to discover if he was mortal or not, though the name’s absence from the Book of the Beast told her he wasn’t of her deluded flock. It had been rare for Lucifer to grant them boons, as he could typically get them to do his bidding on Earth for all of their lengthy lifespans without the added bargaining, but it had happened.

Given the wild goose chase she’d been led on all over New Orleans, she would bet _not_ mortal. Possibly a hedge. She was getting closer, unraveling the threads of whatever magic was keeping her from pinning down his exact location. She suspected if she sat down with a scrying mirror and a bit of focus, she could rip right through, but by the time she’d caught on, she’d already been two steps in and a part of her was almost having fun. It was so rare to be challenged like this anymore.

She closed her eyes, feeling for the pull of the owed soul, sifting through veils of obfuscation and intentional misdirection until… _there._ Power with Satan’s stain upon it, a great deal of power. If darkness could be described as a beacon, this was exactly that.

She stepped sideways, deeper into the shadows, into darkness and nothingness, until she herself was nothing at all, and then out the other side into a similar alley. Walking to the mouth of the alley, she looked across the street. _Michele Marie’s Botanica_.

 _Interesting. Voodoo, Vodou, Conjure, or Santeria?_ Regardless of affiliation, it was bold of them to tangle with this degree of Satanic magic, but then, if a practitioner was being paid for their assistance, that would put any moral burden back on Mr. Pendle.

Lilith crossed the street, approaching the building. It was large for such an establishment, two stories, perhaps a living space on the second floor. She felt the brush of a blessing designed to dissuade malicious intent, but it was nary a nuisance to her.

She just needed what she was owed, after all. What Hell was owed.

She pushed into the cooler air of the building, scanning the space as she entered. There was someone behind the counter, speaking on the phone. Lilith walked along the perimeter of the shop, keeping the woman in her peripheral vision.

“Ah, I must go, _mon ami,"_ she said, her tone suddenly heavy enough that Lilith smirked. She met the woman’s eyes as the phone was clicked down, seeing the carefully concealed alarm. 

“May I help you?” she asked evenly, respectfully, though tension was visible in her stance. 

“Are you Michele Marie?” she questioned, picking up an amulet as she strolled.

“ _Oui_. Mambo Michele Marie LaFleur, priestess of High Haiti. Are you looking for something in particular?” she asked again, leaving the shield of the counter.

“I am looking for someone in particular, yes,” Lilith responded airly, dropping the amulet back into a random bin, watching closely for a reaction.

Not even a flicker of her eyes, but her movements were putting her between Lilith and another room within the store. “There is no one for you here,” the mambo said, warning in her tone.

“Well, we’ll see about that. If there isn’t, they have nothing to fear.” Lilith prepared to incapacitate her and get on with her hunt. The dissembling was growing tedious and something in the shop was prickling at her awareness, though she couldn’t yet place the familiarity of it.

However, at that moment, she was overcome by another sensation. At first, it was the metaphysical equivalent of nails screeching down a chalkboard. Then, to her consternation, it solidified into something great and terrible and _burning_ with righteous rage. Different, but this too was familiar. Bile burned at her throat and she clenched her fists to conceal the tremor that ran through them.

She raised her eyes, seeing that though the Vodouisant was not so affected, she could at least sense that something was amiss.

“If you have any additional protections prepared, I would advise you to raise them _now_.”

  
  



End file.
